


A Thousand to One and a Million to Two

by HumanError



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Molly, Caring Mycroft, Drugs, Emotional Sherlock, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Sad John, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock and John are in love and it's beautiful, They care about each other really, brotherly disputes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-06-05 12:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 8,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6703822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanError/pseuds/HumanError
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment he's running. The next, he's on the cold ground of London. Then, he's back in Afghanistan.</p><p>John recollects the blistering heat of the Afghan sun, and he hears the deafening blasts of the exploding field around him. Not this again he thinks, or, he would do if he had any rational thought left in him. If he could think properly, he would be remembering the correct methods used to minimise the impact of a gunshot wound. But no. All he's thinking now is fuck. This hurts. I am dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> The title of the song is in reference to 30 Seconds To Mars' song 'Closer to the Edge'. I hope you enjoy :)

One moment he's running. The next, he's on the cold ground of London. Then, he's back in Afghanistan.

John recollects the blistering heat of the Afghan sun, and he hears the deafening blasts of the exploding field around him. _Not this again_ he thinks, or, he would do if he had any rational thought left in him. If he could think properly, he would be remembering the correct methods used to minimise the impact of a gunshot wound. But no. All he's thinking now is _fuck. This hurts. I am dying._

But suddenly, there is no scorching heat. There are no blasts. He cannot hear the shouts of _man down! It's Watson! Man down!_ It's all gone. He doesn't even know if it was there to begin with.

However, what he does feel is the sharp sting of London air on his cheeks, nipping at every piece of skin it can reach. What he can hear is a panicked shout of _pressure, Sherlock. Apply pressure._ It's Lestrade. The instant he hears the voice, John is aware of where he is.

Opening his eyes proves to be more of a struggle than he ever thought possible because he just feels _so tired,_ but he manages to, and the first thing he sees is the sky. It's dark. Darker than he's ever seen it before. There isn't enough time for this to register though, because now there's a face in his line of vision, and there's blood on it. _His blood?_ He knows the answer soon after because Sherlock lifts a shaking hand to his forehead and wipes again, this time leaving an even bigger smear. Then comes the pressure on his chest and _Jesus Christ_ does it hurt. He cannot help but release a panicked whimper from his throat.

"Sherlock, keep the pressure." Lestrade speaks with a shaky voice. John's never heard him sound like this before.

"How long?" Sherlock's voice is as equally unsteady. But there's no answer because there is suddenly the constant whir of the siren, Sherlock's face isn't above him (and that isn't right because Sherlock needs to be with him) and a woman is there, shining a light in his eyes whilst another pair of hands are applying pressure to his wound. There is a mask on his face.

She is saying something to him, trying to make him aware of his situation but she could be speaking a foreign language for all John cares, because he can’t understand what she’s saying. He can’t focus on her, nor her words. The woman’s face is blurred and her speech is murmured and John can’t find it in himself to actually care.

 _Sherlock,_ is what he wants to say, but the moment John moves his lips is the moment that all of this suddenly becomes _very real._ He feels himself start to panic, and he knows that it’s the most ridiculous thing he could possibly do, but _for fuck’s sake, I can’t leave Sherlock like he left me. Not today._

They are in the ambulance. Him, Sherlock, and the paramedic. At this point John’s unable to comprehend much, apart from the hand holding onto his. There are still voices with meaningless words. There is still the pressure on his chest. His eyes flutter closed, and then open again, and then closed. It’s only when they open and close once more that one of the voices registers and it’s him. It’s him, it’s him, it’s him.

“John, we’re losing you. Come on, John.” It’s hard not to notice the fear that his voice holds, the way Sherlock’s voice breaks slightly when he says ‘come on’. It’s not just an encouragement, it’s a plea. _Stay with me,_ it says.

His eyes remain closed.


	2. 100 Suns

“Sherlock, just sit down for Christ’s sake. Pacing isn’t going to do anything.” Lestrade sighed, exasperated, tired, and frustrated. This wasn’t fair. Not on John, not on Sherlock, not on him who had been trying to catch the murderous bastard for months. _How could I let him get away?_

“What do you propose I do then? Hm?” Sherlock ran a blood covered hand through his hair, worry getting the better of him. He’d never felt panic like this before: not when he’d woken up in hospital after an OD and not when he himself had been shot. Nothing compared to this.

“At least get yourself cleaned up if you don’t want to sit down. You’ve still got blood on your forehead.”

“No.”

“Sherlock.” The detective stopped in his way and stared at the ground. He knew he was still covered in John’s blood, could feel the stickiness still plastering his forehead. Sherlock clasped his hands together and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, but it wouldn’t come off.  Lestrade spoke again and said Sherlock’s name, his voice quiet, and then he was standing up, touching his hands to Sherlock’s and pulling them apart so he couldn’t rub anymore.

“He can’t die.”

All Lestrade could do was nod his head. Sherlock was right- he couldn’t die. Not right now.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” The detective inspector led him away to the nearest bathroom and pressed his blood soaked hands under the tap, scrubbing them with his own hands. Sherlock stood still, the severity of the situation taking its toll on him. Lestrade had taken some paper towels from the dispenser and was now holding them under the stream of water as well, before he took them in hand and wiped it on Sherlock’s forehead.

They returned to the waiting room in silence and Lestrade sat down. To their surprise, Mycroft was seated on the chair in the far corner, legs crossed over and staring at the floor, thinking.

“Ah, brother.” Mycroft stood, pressing his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders which in turn spun him around, and ushered him out the door.

“Mycroft, get off now or-“

“If you’ll excuse us please, Gregory. We shall just be a moment.” With one last shove from Mycroft, Sherlock was out the door. They too remained silent until they were outside in the smoking area.

Before Sherlock could get a word in edgeways, Mycroft was speaking to him in the condescending manner he had all those years ago when they were teenagers.

“How could you be so stupid?”

“I-“

“You’re high.”

“Myc-“

“You are high and you thought it was acceptable to go out on a case. You put yourself in danger. You put _John_ in danger and he is now in there on a surgery table fighting for his life.” Mycroft shook his head in disbelief and turned, exasperated, before facing his little brother again. “How the hell could you be so stupid?”

“I’m surprised you care, brother-“

Mycroft lowered his voice, low enough so it was only Sherlock who could hear him, and enunciated every word slowly. “Stop this. Now. Just stop it.” He paused. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“When have you ever cared, Mycroft? Please, do tell.” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “No?”

“Perhaps, little brother, when I realised how vulnerable you are.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Vulnerable. Please do spare me the pity.” Sherlock made to turn but Mycroft managed to stand in his way, blocking the entrance back into the hospital. He stood closer so he was face to face with Sherlock but the few centimetres he had on his brother made him seem all the more intimidating.

“Don’t cause any more trouble than necessary, Sherlock.” Mycroft stared down his nose, his eyes a threatening glare as he stared at his little brother. “I advise you to go back to Baker Street and come down.”

The detective side stepped before slamming his forearm against Mycroft’s chest and shoving him into the concrete of the hospital wall. “John is in that operating theatre. I intend to be there when he wakes up.” And with that he stalked back into the hospital, back to the waiting room, leaving Mycroft behind.


	3. The Race

Lestrade quickly pocketed his phone as Sherlock entered the waiting room again. If there was one thing that he was certain of it would be that Sherlock would not be impressed with what he was about to say. However, he was under strict orders from the elder Holmes brother. _Do not let him stay in that hospital._ And whilst Lestrade could acknowledge that taking him away from John whilst he was in this state probably wasn’t the best idea, it was certainly better than allowing him to stay in the hospital, agitated, and possibly disrupting John when he could finally see him. Now was definitely not the time to be high on cocaine.

“Sherlock…”

“Spare me the talk, Lestrade.” Sherlock slumped against his chair and immediately put his head in his hands. They were shaking and it wasn’t difficult to see that it was out of frustration and anger rather than worry (although Lestrade was sure that must have been a contributing factor).

 _Alright,_ Lestrade thought, _let’s approach this carefully._

“Maybe you should just go home. Get some rest-“

“Don’t tell me I need rest. I don’t. What I need is-“

“John won’t be in any fit state later. And I don’t think you will be either.” Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. Sherlock wasn’t going easily.

Sherlock clenched his fists in his hair and what came out of his mouth was more like a growl than anything else.

“Why are you doing this? What satisfaction are you gaining?” He was shouting now, his voice barely suppressing the anger that had been slowly building ever since Mycroft had arrived at the hospital. Lestrade knew this wasn’t going to be pleasant, which is exactly what he had feared.

“I’m not gaining _any_ satisfaction. Mycroft-“

Sherlock scoffed. “Of course Mycroft sent you to do this.” He slammed his fist against the wall, cracking his knuckles and breaking the skin. He didn’t seem to care. “When will you stop listening to him?” The anger had broken through now and it became apparent that he wasn’t going to calm down any time soon. “Is he incapable of keeping his nose out of other people’s business?”

“I am telling you to leave, Sherlock.” Without hesitation, Lestrade had sprung to his feet, putting his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and gesturing towards the door of the waiting room.

“Get off of me.”

“You need to come down-“

“I said get off me!” But it was too late- Sherlock was fighting back and Lestrade was trying to restrain him. Voices were raised until finally, _finally_ Lestrade managed to clasp the handcuffs around Sherlock’s wrists.

“You are leaving. Now, Sherlock!”

“Lestrade. If you don’t-“ However, Sherlock didn’t manage to finish his sentence as Lestrade pulled the handcuffs backwards, in turn bringing his arm back, and pushed him against the wall so that his face was pressed against it.

“Don’t make me bring Mycroft in here. I can and I will. Now, listen to me. You are not staying here, not in this state. Understand?”


	4. City of Angels

After a lot of struggling and shouting, Lestrade managed to get Sherlock in the back of a police car. He thought it would be a little too harsh on him if he were to take him to the station (although he had every reason to) so instead, he took him to the one place where he knew he would be looked after. Lestrade had considered taking him back to Baker Street but after much thought he decided it would be best if Sherlock wasn’t anywhere near Mrs Hudson, not when he was so vulnerable and aggressive. They hadn’t informed Mrs Hudson of what had happened to John yet.

“Make sure he stays here, ok? I would take him back to mine but clearly he’s not impressed with me at the moment. No surprises there, though.” Lestrade chuckled slightly. If he didn’t laugh he thought he may have lost his temper instead. “But if he does cause any trouble call me or Mycroft. Make sure he gets some rest. We’ll let you know if there are any updates on John.”

“He is going to be ok though, isn’t he?” Molly asked, arms folded as she spoke to Lestrade in the hallway. “John, I mean. I suppose Sherlock as well.”

“I really don’t know, Molly. John’s a tough man but you’ve got to have some strength to come back from that.” Molly shook her head slightly as a gasp escaped her lips. She was rather fond of John. “And as for Sherlock…honestly? I have no idea. You know how he and John are… I can’t imagine what he’s going through right now. The drugs can’t be helping him.”

“He must have taken the drugs before he went out though. How did no one notice?”

“I honestly don’t know how I missed it. Mistake on my part. It’s the first time he’s been on drugs since he’s met John- or so I’m aware. He’s been trying to figure out this case for months. Maybe the stress got to him. All I know is that it wasn’t safe for him to be in that hospital whilst he was like that and Mycroft agrees- he could have done anything. He’s always been unpredictable whilst influenced. At least here I’ll know he’ll be calm and _hopefully_ he won’t worry about John as much.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“I know, but I can only hope.” Lestrade twiddled the handcuffs between his fingers. Sherlock was now in Molly’s living room, lounging on the sofa and not talking to either of them. “Are you sure you’re ok with him being here?”

Molly nodded in response. “Of course.”

“Alright then… I’ll be off. Thankyou Molly, really this is-“

“Greg, promise me you’ll be alright.”

“I… well…“ Molly noticed the way Lestrade looked up towards the ceiling as if he were trying to fight any emotion that was trying to escape. She noticed how he sniffed slightly before lowering his gaze again.

“That can’t have been easy, seeing John like that. I know it comes with the job but he’s your friend as well. And then having to get Sherlock away...” After a brief pause Molly tilted her head upwards, never faltering in keeping eye contact with Lestrade. “You’re a very brave man.”

The two of them remained silent as Molly embraced Greg in a hug. It was Lestrade who spoke first. “Thankyou, Molly.”

She pulled away and smiled, only slightly, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Well, best not leave Sherlock in there too long by himself. Goodnight, Greg.” And with that, he left.


	5. A Modern Myth

“Come to lecture me too?” Sherlock snarled as Molly entered the living room, two cups of tea in her hands.

“Black, two sugars, just as you like it.” She handed Sherlock a mug which was decorated with anatomically correct hearts, and sat down beside him on the sofa. He swung his feet around so he was sitting upright and took a sip of his tea.

“What’s the time?”

“Nearing on 02:00am. You can have the spare bedroom upstairs if-“ But Molly was soon interrupted.

“No. I don’t need it.” He placed the mug on a coaster on the table and sat back against the sofa, yawning. He was becoming increasingly aware of how knackered he was.

“You need some rest.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed at the statement. He wished people would stop telling him what he needed and what he should have. What he wanted, and everyone seemed to blatantly ignore this, was to be back at the hospital with John because that was all that mattered at the moment. He would come down from this high. He would be fine. John, on the other hand, was not going to be fine.

“Alright, alright, I was just trying to be kind but-“

“I don’t need you to be kind!” Tea spilled to the floor as Molly jumped, burning her fingers on the hot beverage. She carefully placed her mug on the coffee table as well before standing up, leaning over Sherlock as he remained seated. Sherlock looked at her not bothering to disguise how pissed off she was with the man before her.

“Don’t speak to me like that, Sherlock. Don’t you dare.” She clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white, and her gaze lingered on Sherlock as her voice subsided and took on a calmer tone. “I know you’re hurting and I know you’re probably feeling guilty.” As she spoke to Sherlock he could feel his stomach tighten, the truth to her words hitting him like a stab wound. “But you are not making this _any_ better for yourself if you’re locking up your emotions. If you want to cry, _just do it._ If you want to shout, _just do it_ but don’t take it out on me, or Lestrade, or Mycroft. You couldn’t have stopped this. They couldn’t have stopped this. It happened and all we can do now it be there for John. But you can’t do that whilst you are high. You are unstable so we’re just going to have to wait until the morning to see what happens. Ok?”

Sherlock pursed his lips before averting his eyes to his knees. He could feel the tears stinging his eyes but he wasn’t going to let them show, not now. Molly made her way back over to the sofa and plopped down next to Sherlock, resting a hand on his shoulder.

After two minutes of silence Sherlock spoke quietly, voice strained as he recollected what had happened earlier. He couldn’t look at Molly as he said his next words. “He stopped breathing in the ambulance.” The detective clenched his jaw, as if saying this statement was the most difficult thing he would ever have to say in his life. It probably was. “I said to him that we were losing him. He closed his eyes and he stopped breathing. I don’t know if he’s ok.”

“He’s in good hands.” Molly rubbed her hand across Sherlock’s shoulder, doing anything she could to be as comforting as possible. Despite not wanting to admit it, Sherlock did appreciate Molly’s concern. He definitely wasn’t going to get it from Mycroft.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You need to get some sleep.” This time, he didn’t argue.


	6. Was It A Dream?

Molly remained awake once Sherlock eventually went up to the spare bedroom, after they had both finished their tea. It took a while to persuade him to get out of his blood soaked shirt so Molly could wash it but again, he eventually agreed to it. So that’s what Molly did. She cleaned his clothes.

She had contemplated going to sleep as well but she knew she would be getting an update from either Lestrade of Mycroft any time soon, and that she would want to be awake when she received it in case anything was an emergency.

At 03:11am, Lestrade phoned. “Any news?”

“He’s out of surgery. The damage was a lot more serious than they initially thought.” Molly heard a quiver to Lestrade’s voice that she had not heard before and it made her panic. _Worse than they initially thought?_

“What does-“

“The next few hours are vital. We should know by morning.”

“Should I tell Sherlock?”

“Is he awake?”

“I managed to get him to go upstairs about an hour ago. I don’t know if he’s asleep or not.”

“Best not to disturb him then. How are you, Molly?”

“As good as I can be considering the circumstances. What’s happened with the shooter?”

“We don’t know where he is. A search is going on now though.”

Molly nodded her head before realising that Lestrade could not see what she was doing. “Right. Ok. Has John been awake?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t allowed in the ICU. I imagine he’ll be getting some rest now though. We can visit tomorrow- I’m sure Sherlock will be there the moment he can.”

“There’s no doubt about that.”

Molly pulled herself up from the sofa and carefully made her way over to the kitchen table, dragging the seat from its resting place and sitting down. She heard Greg cough before he finally asked, “How was Sherlock once I left?”

“Not good.” She responded, placing her elbows on the table and dropping her head into the hand which wasn’t holding the phone. “He told me something.”

“Yeah?”

“He told me that John stopped breathing in the ambulance. Did he tell that to you?”

“I had no idea.” Lestrade sighed and it was evident to Molly that he was just as worried about the two of them as she was. “Jesus. The poor sod.”

“I can’t imagine how he’s feeling.” She didn’t need to say anymore to Lestrade for him to know what she meant. Sherlock had never been good at dealing with emotions in any situation, let alone dealing with something as traumatic as this. They knew what John was to Sherlock. If something came in the way of those two it was utterly unpredictable what either man would do. They were two parts to one whole. Molly and Lestrade knew this.


	7. Edge of the Earth

Morning came around slowly and Sherlock woke with a start, his head pounding. He’d been thinking too much, constantly fretting about whether John was going to be ok or not. It must have only been an hour since he’d finally succumbed to sleep and even then, it was uncomfortable.

Sherlock dragged himself from the bed, noting the dishevelled appearance of himself in the mirror. His hair was unruly, sticking out in all directions. Bags had made themselves present underneath his tired eyes and his skin had taken on a shade much paler than usual. In short, he looked absolutely awful.

After coming down the stairs, Sherlock quickly received his freshly cleaned clothes from the airer in the hallway and dressed, before helping himself to a cup of coffee. Molly was already in the kitchen. Going by the fact that she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and had her hair in the exact same style, Sherlock soon realised that she had not gone to sleep last night at all.

“Morning.” Molly said, the cheeriness to her voice that was usually there gone.

“What time is it?”

“Just gone six.”

“Why didn’t you go to sleep?” Sherlock knew the answer to this question yet he found himself wondering what Molly’s response would be, nonetheless.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“You could, though you need not to.” He sipped his coffee. “Why didn’t you tell Lestrade I was awake if you knew I hadn’t gone to sleep?”

“I didn’t want Greg up all night worrying.”

“What has he got to worry about? It’s John who’s-“ But before he could get the words out or even consider what he was going to say next, Sherlock’s voice broke and he inhaled a shaky breath, pressing his eyes together whilst shaking his head. No no no. He had been awake the whole night and no one had told him anything. “How is he?”

“I don’t know-“

“Oh for God’s sake. What does it take for some cooperation around this place? Keep everything from Sherlock, why don’t you? I’m a genius but I can’t read minds. You know information about John that I don’t. Why won’t you tell me?”

“It’s not that simple-“

“Not that simple. Right. Last night you received a phone call roughly an hour after I left the room. I heard it ringing. Who else would call you that early? Not a family emergency- you wouldn’t have remained here. Obviously not work related. A friend?” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “No. It’s still an unreasonable hour to call. Someone who has concerns then who is not a family member, friend or colleague. Who does that leave us with? Yes, you guessed it. Mycroft or Lestrade. And I assume from the considerable amount of time you were on the phone it was Lestrade. He wouldn’t have needed to phone if there hadn’t been any updates on John. I know he gave you information. So tell me. Why can’t you say what it was?”

Molly had avoided looking at Sherlock, opting to avert her gaze to the discarded piece of toast left over on her plate. Sherlock glared at her disapprovingly.

“Greg’s coming over in an hour. Let him speak to you.” And with that, Molly stood up and left to go in the living room.


	8. Saviour

“What do you mean _worse_ than they initially thought?” Sherlock’s fists clenched repeatedly, over and over again as Lestrade spoke to him. Lestrade had arrived at the time Molly had said he would, with Mycroft also, and by 09:00am the four of them were at the hospital. No one spoke the whole journey, and it was only when they were all sitting together in the waiting room of the ICU that Sherlock began to speak.

“Something about the impact of the bullet- I don’t know, Sherlock. Just wait until the doctor comes out to speak.”

“Wait until the doctor-“

“Sherlock!” Mycroft spoke for the first time that morning as well, staring at his little brother before he could go on a rant. The small congregation of people all looked at Mycroft, waiting for him to continue. “Leave the poor inspector alone. Dear Lord, he cannot tell you what he doesn’t know.”

Sherlock remained still, flustered by his brother’s outburst. Lestrade turned his head down and smiled whilst Molly grimaced slightly, unprepared for the argument that would inevitably ensue. However, as if by perfect coincidence, the doctor came into the waiting room, patient notes in his hand and a welcoming but sympathetic smile on his face. He looked to be in his late forties, hair just beginning to turn grey, with the beginnings of some stubble on his chin. He looked around the room at the four of them before resting his gaze on Sherlock.

“You must be Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Within an instant, Sherlock was on his feet and grasping the doctor’s hand in a firm handshake.

“I’m Dr Patrick Holden. Would you mind if we stepped over into my office for a moment?” The doctor released his grip on Sherlock and gestured to his right, motioning to a door with the aforementioned name presented on it. Sherlock followed and took the seat offered to him as Dr Holden sat on the opposite side of his desk.

“Can I get you a drink? Tea, coffee, water?”

“No, thank you.” Sherlock pressed his palms together, intertwining his fingers as he waited for the doctor to speak.

“I am aware of how distressing this situation may be for you but I am happy to confirm that John is in a stabilised position and we believe he will make a recovery.” The doctor paused and smiled at Sherlock, who in turn nodded his head. This didn’t mean he was in the all clear yet. “The way the bullet entered meant that John’s lung collapsed which caused it to fill with blood. That’s a lot scarier than it sounds, don’t worry. We’ve managed to drain the blood but the chest tube will remain in place until the lung is able to inflate on its own. Our trauma surgeons have repaired the damaged lung and surrounding area and have removed the bullet. John’s now in a stabilised state in the ICU. We’ll keep him in the ICU for today to make sure there’s no post-surgery complications. Due to the state of the injury the police will be informed but our main focus right now is making sure that John is ok.”

“He stopped breathing in the ambulance-“

“It was a very traumatic experience. Shock would’ve played a large factor in that. If we hadn’t managed to stabilise him in the ambulance I would probably be telling you a very different story now. But thankfully we managed to and we haven’t got anything to suggest that John isn’t going to survive. Obviously we’ll keep him in this unit until we’re absolutely certain that he’s got the all clear but like I said, he’s doing as well as we could have hoped right now. You’re welcome to go through to the ICU if you would like to.” 

Sherlock stood, holding his hand out to the doctor for another shake. “Yes, thank you. Thank you very much, Dr Holden.”

“If you’ll follow me.”


	9. Alibi

The moment Sherlock stepped into the doors of the intensive care unit the more in love he fell with John than he was ever aware was possible. Knowing that he was here, that he was _alive_ was all Sherlock needed to know that he could never be without John again, and that he wouldn’t ever _want_ to be away from John again.

The detective took tentative steps towards the bed in which John was laying, white blanket resting gently against his abdomen and chest tube inserted on his left side, and sat down beside him in a rather uncomfortable white chair. He carefully reached his arm out to encase John’s considerably colder hand in his own, entwining their fingers together in a touch that was reassuring to Sherlock. _He is here. He is alive._

“How’s he doing?” Sherlock peered around in search for the owner of the voice and saw Lestrade’s head poking around the corner of the curtain surrounding the bed. All of the anger Sherlock had previously for the detective inspector, all of the frustration for being taken away from John, had dissipated.

“He’s stable.” Sherlock averted his attention back to his partner and pressed his mouth to John’s hand.

“He’s a bloody lucky man.” Lestrade stated, watching the two of them. Sherlock heard him shuffle forward and touch his hand to his shoulder, before giving it a firm squeeze and stepping back. “Has he been awake yet?”

Sherlock placed their hands back onto the blanket and shook his head. “Not yet.”

However, as if on cue, John shifted slightly where he was laying and his eyes fluttered open. Lestrade realised this before Sherlock and with a quick comment of “I’ll leave you to it,” the two men were left alone.

“Bastard.” John muttered, voice heavy after the sedation, laboured breath inhibiting his ability to speak quickly. His fingers squeezed Sherlock’s and he glanced in Sherlock’s direction, the vaguest hint of a smile on his pale lips. “Shot again.” The detective smiled in response, an overwhelming wave emotion engulfing him. He could feel his eyes stinging with tears but he _wasn’t going to cry. John is alive. John is here._

In the end it wasn’t Sherlock who cried though. Before he could even respond to John, he heard the quiet sob, saw the tear on the corner of his eye fall. John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head before speaking again. “For fuck’s sake, Sherlock.”

Sherlock manoeuvred the hand that wasn’t holding onto John’s and rested it behind his head, stroking his thumb gently backwards and forwards over his greying hair. John nudged his head back into Sherlock’s palm whilst inhaling, letting the oxygen from his cannula course through into his lungs. They remained in companionable silence for a couple of minutes, Sherlock soothing John as he calmed down, never once breaking his hold of John’s hand.

Despite the morphine that was shooting through his veins, John was in pain. “Do you want me to get a nurse?” Sherlock inquired- for the first time in his life he was unsure of what to do.

“No.” John grunted slightly, a paroxysm of pain jabbing at his chest. “No, it’s fine.” After a pause, he spoke again. “When can I leave?”

“I highly doubt you’ll be leaving anytime soon, John. You’re still in the ICU.” John closed his eyes again and clenched his jaw, not wanting to accept what Sherlock was saying. He hated hospitals, Sherlock knew, and avoided them at all costs if at all possible.

“What-” another pause. “How bad?”

“Entry and exit wound. I imagine you’ll have some extensive damage to muscle and surrounding areas. Collapsed lung. You’ve a drainage tube- that’s expected. I’m sure it’ll be out in a couple of days. Nasal cannula- obviously you’re aware of that. And just about as much as you’d expect after coming out of life saving surgery. You went into shock and stopped breathing in the ambulance- never do that again, John.” Sherlock was the one clenching his jaw now, but he didn’t stop looking at John. It was more of a plea than a demand, and John was aware of this as he held Sherlock’s hand tighter and gestured him to come forward, which he did, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“I love you.” His voice was shaky and it was obvious to Sherlock that he was trying to remain ignorant to the fact that he was scared. That was the one thing John had always had trouble disguising- his emotions. Of course, to everyone else John would look like he was putting on a brave face, and in a sense, Sherlock knew that he was doing that as well. But it was difficult to disguise the fear that those eyes attempted to hide, and if there was anyone who could see through them Sherlock knew it would be him. John knew this as well.

Sherlock’s lips curled upwards slightly. It wasn’t much of a smile, but it was enough for John to know exactly how Sherlock felt, and that his feelings were exactly the same.

“Mycroft, Molly and Lestrade are in the waiting room.” Sherlock said whilst tapping the tips of his fingers to the tips of John’s. He avoided mentioning that they were with him due to the events of last night. “I already know that you’re too tired to want to see any of them, which is why I’m still here and they haven’t been in, because I wanted to see you for longer.”

“I’m fine with that.” John smirked.

“I thought you would be.” And for the first time since all of this happened, they both genuinely smiled. “How’s the pain?”

“Awful. Definitely hurts more the second time round.” John finished with a yawn and pressed back into Sherlock’s hand again, encouraging him to continue rubbing his thumb against his scalp. Sherlock obliged. He could see the tiredness slowly beginning to seep back into him, the drugs taking their toll on his already weakened body. John readjusted the cannula and settled back into the pillows before closing his eyes and finally letting sleep take over.


	10. From Yesterday

Back in the waiting room Mycroft, Molly and Lestrade were in a deep conversation about the two men in the ICU.

“Is Sherlock going back to yours after he’s finished visiting John?” Lestrade asked Molly before taking a sip of his coffee. It was already cold.

“Not that I know of.” Molly replied. “Mycroft?” The elder Holmes brother looked up from his newspaper before folding it neatly and placing it on the spare seat beside him.

“I imagine he’ll want to be returning back to Baker Street. No doubt he’ll be visiting John again this evening if he’s moved in to another ward, which seems likely.”

Lestrade was the next to speak. “You think he’ll be ok? Sherlock, I mean.”

“Now that he’s seen John, yes but-“

Before Mycroft could continue Sherlock had strolled through the doors of the ICU and into the waiting room. The three of them watched as made his way over to the seat beside Mycroft, flinging the newspaper to the floor. They all looked at him expectantly.

“Well?” Asked Lestrade.

“How is he?” Molly questioned.

“He’s stable. The morphine has him knocked out right now. I plan on returning later, of course.” Mycroft smirked at the other two in the room- exactly what he had said. “John’s going to remain in the ICU for observation.”

“Did he have much to say? He woke up-“

“I’m going home.”


	11. Search and Destroy

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock immediately went to find Mrs Hudson and they went upstairs to 221B. Mrs Hudson had been worrying all night, understandably- “I wish you would tell me when you’re not coming home, Sherlock! I worry! And John-” She looked around in search for the man in question. “Where’s John?”

“Mrs Hudson, have some tea and sit down.” She sat down on the sofa in the living room and waited for Sherlock to make the tea, before he came and sat down as well. He took no time whatsoever in telling their landlady exactly what had happened.

“John was shot last night on a case.” He placed his mug on the coaster and collapsed back into his chair, kicking his shoes off as he did so.

“What? No-” She held a shaking hand to her mouth as she looked Sherlock, the shock of the statement finally making itself evident. “Oh, Sherlock. Is he-”

“In the intensive care unit. He’s conscious, which of course is good. I left Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly at the hospital but they didn’t get a chance to see him, nor will they get to today. You, however, are coming with me to the afternoon visit. Mrs Hudson, please stop crying.”

The detective looked at his landlady and he was graced with a sudden rush of empathy. He was aware of how fond of Mrs Hudson John was, and, additionally, how much Mrs Hudson cared for John like he was her own son. However, before Mrs Hudson had the opportunity to respond, there was a knock to the door and she was up, wiping the tears from her face as she made her way over to the door.

From where he was sitting, Sherlock heard the voice which was undoubtedly that of his brother’s. All traces of sadness were gone from Mrs Hudson’s voice as she said. “I thought Sherlock left you at the hospital?”

“He did.” Mycroft’s voice grew louder as he stepped further into 221B, umbrella tapping ceaselessly against the floorboards. “Though my brother and I have some…things…to sort out.”

Just as Mrs Hudson was about to close the door, Lestrade came bounding up the stairs too.

“And why are _you_ here, Graham?” Sherlock remained seated, though his body became noticeably more rigid. Mrs Hudson had shut the door and was loitering behind the new guests, torn between being welcoming or reprimanding for coming in uninvited.

“It’s _Greg._ And Mycroft asked me to join him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “ _Why,”_ he sighed, “am I not surprised?”

“What is going on here?” Mrs Hudson asked, clearly confused at the dispute that was inevitably going to ensue. Mycroft turned his body to face Mrs Hudson, his face a look of pure seriousness.

“My brother here has decided to go back on the drugs. I’m sure you remember how he was the last time that happened.” He turned back to Sherlock. “Do you remember, Sherlock?”

The detective had stood up now and was face to face with his brother. “That was years ago.”

“And it appears that in those years you haven’t become any less stupid.” They glared at one another, eyes never losing focus.

“It was controlled usage last night, _Mycroft.”_

“And yet, you still managed to act moronically.”

“Found it!” Lestrade, who had since made his way around the living room of 221B, held up a small packet of white powder and gestured towards it with his thumb. “Think this is all?” He quickly glanced at Mrs Hudson, before lowering the packet down. “Sherlock.” He said, running a hand through his hair. “This is for the best.”

“Yes, it would be for the best if I were addicted again. The fact of the matter is that I am _not_ addicted and therefore this whole show is completely useless. There is nothing else in this flat that you will find of interest so get out. Now.”

After around an hour of thorough investigation, Mycroft and Lestrade ended up with nothing but that singular packet of cocaine that Lestrade had found at the beginning. The detective inspector looked rather sheepish after he had finished rummaging through Sherlock and John’s flat, finding nothing. Sherlock had been right.

“Happy now?” Sherlock asked, teeth gritted together as he looked at Lestrade. Mycroft’s lips twitched in a grimace as his brother looked at him, the _I told you so_ expression never once faltering.

“You can get out now.”

With that, they left.


	12. The Fantasy

“Drugs?” Mrs Hudson asked, shutting the door and strolling back into the living. Sherlock had entered his bedroom, retrieving his blue dressing gown before returning and lolling back on the sofa.

“Controlled usage, Mrs Hudson. It was a one off.” He curled himself into a ball and buried his face in the cushions of the sofa, before letting out another sigh, unsatisfied with the comfortableness of his position and leaping upwards over the table and onto his chair. “What is the time?”

“11:07. What time is visiting?” Going into the kitchen, Mrs Hudson began making Sherlock some breakfast, assuming he hadn’t eaten this morning. She rummaged around the cabinets, the only thing she managed to produce being a can of baked beans. “Honestly, Sherlock, you need to keep your cupboards stocked.”

“John and I were meant to be shopping today.” The detective clambered into the kitchen, taking the beans from Mrs Hudson’s hand and flinging it in the bin.

“What was that for?” Mrs Hudson asked, exasperated.

“Got any biscuits?” Smiling, Mrs Hudson patted the detective on the shoulder, a warm smile on her face.

“Downstairs.”

The two of them sat in companionable silence in Mrs Hudson’s flat as they ate bourbon biscuits and custard creams. The silence was eventually broken by Mrs Hudson who said, “John really is rather remarkable.”

Sherlock stopped eating and put his fourth bourbon back on his plate before lifting his head and looking at Mrs Hudson. “I am worried.”

“Of course you are. Who can blame you? He’s your-“

“I know. I know. But there is a very high chance of his PTSD returning and I don’t know how to help that.”

“You helped him the last time,” Mrs Hudson pointed out, “and he was fine after that.”

“I wasn’t emotionally attached to him the first time. Also, that was months after he had been shot. It will inevitably be immediately this time.”

Pursing her lips, Mrs Hudson shrugged her shoulders. “You’ll know what to do, Sherlock. And when the time comes he’ll have a good support network around him. This won’t be like the last time.”

With a nod of his head, Sherlock picked up another biscuit.

***

The afternoon came around quickly and soon enough Sherlock and Mrs Hudson had left Baker Street and were back at the hospital. John was awake this time as they arrived, but it was evident to Sherlock that he was fighting sleep. Stubborn as ever though, John wouldn’t give in.

Sherlock pulled the bedside seat out for Mrs Hudson who sat down after pressing a kiss to John’s forehead. “Oh, John. Bless you.”

“Hello, Mrs Hudson.” John smiled, albeit feebly, but it was a smile nonetheless. He then smiled at Sherlock. “Hey.”

Mrs Hudson shuffled closer on her seat. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better.” John chuckled, which led to a sharp intake of breath. “Never fucking better.” And then, as an afterthought, “apologies for the language.”

“Oh, don’t mind me dear. I would say you have every right to swear right now.” She patted John’s hand. “Swear away.” John shifted his position on the bed.

“This bloody tube-“ He pointed to the side of his chest, which turned out to be a big mistake as the sudden movement of his arm caused his whole body to tighten, the pain overwhelming.

Sherlock had immediately moved round to the other side of John’s bed and placed his hand on John’s exposed shoulder, gently indicating for him to _just relax._ Once John had caught his breath he lowered his arm. “This bloody tube is irritating.”

“It’ll be out in a few days.” Sherlock, who was still standing beside him, carefully wiped the sleep away from John’s eyes and repositioned the cannula that had slipped from behind his ear, so that it was tucked in its original position. The steady beeps of the surrounding machines continued.

Mrs Hudson, who had never seen John express even an ounce of discomfort in any situation regarding injuries after cases, stared at the two of them as Sherlock attempted to console his partner. “Mrs Hudson, could you get John a glass of water please.” She did.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” John muttered through gritted teeth, “this pain is horrific.” His voice was raspy as he spoke, and Sherlock could do nothing but watch as he attempted to fight the pain. “I can’t have any more morphine. I’m seeing things.” His fingers twitched which Sherlock took as a sign for him to hold his hand, which he did so willingly. “When you were gone I thought there was a rabbit at the end of my bed.”

“A rabbit?”

“Remember Bluebell?” John asked, his eyes looking dazed as he looked up to the detective.

“How could I forget Bluebell?” Sherlock stood there, staring at the man on the bed. After a while, John spoke.

“Did I really stop breathing?” John asked, the seriousness in his voice disguising any sense of the haziness that was there just seconds before. He suddenly looked small, as if all the barriers that had always been up had suddenly disappeared, and what was left was the fragile shell of a man who had been through so many awful things in his life that he was just a shadow of who he used to be.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. He had avoided thinking about that at all costs if he could, because John _is here_ and John _is alive._ The fact of the matter stood, however, that John could so easily have not started breathing again. There was never a guarantee of his heart continuing to beat, and if it hadn’t, Sherlock had absolutely no idea whatsoever of how he would be coping right now.

“You did, John.” John squeezed their hands a little tighter.

“I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have stopped that from happening.”

“I know Sher-“

Mrs Hudson drew back the curtain, a glass of water in hand. The conversation would have to wait.


	13. Kings and Queens

For the next half an hour or so the three of them engaged in amicable conversation. Well, it was more of Mrs Hudson talking, John nodding in response and Sherlock watching John every moment he got but all three were fine with that.

“You know, John,” Mrs Hudson continued on, “you’re going to have Sherlock running round the place once you’re back at home.” She smiled lovingly at her boys, and John chuckled.

“Oh Mrs Hudson, I expect no less.” John caught Sherlock’s gaze and winked at him. “He’s good like that.”

“Of course I am.” Sherlock responded. “Though don’t allow Mycroft to get in on it. God forbid what his reaction would be.” The detective grimaced at the thought of the snarky comments he would inevitable receive from his older brother. _I didn’t know you were capable of behaving responsibly_ he would say. _You could barely look after your dog, let alone a fully grown injured man._ “The smug arsehole.”

“You not on good terms with him at the moment?” John asked apprehensively, concerned that this may not exactly be the best thing to talk about right at this moment.

“You could say that.” Mrs Hudson glanced at Sherlock, frowning, before interrupting.

“Sibling rivalries. My sister and I used to have them all the time. I’m sure it’s nothing for you to worry about, John.” She squeezed his hand but before the conversation could proceed any further, Dr Holden came through the doors of the ICU and called through the curtains surrounding John’s bed.

“Dr Watson, this is Dr Holden here. Would you mind if I spoke to you?”

“Please, come in.” Sherlock shuffled closer to John’s head so Dr Holden had more space to stand.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes.” The doctor held out his hand for Sherlock to shake. “And you…”

“Mrs Hudson,” she offered, and she too shook his hand. Finally he reached out to John, who managed, albeit weakly, to shake his hand and offered a relatively small smile.

“Do you mind if I speak with your company present or would you prefer it to be private?”

“They’re welcome to stay.”

“Brilliant.” Dr Holden scanned the notes on his clipboard in front of him before holding it tightly to his chest. “It seems you’ve had no post-surgery complications. Being a doctor yourself I’m sure you’re aware of how important the following 24 hours are and you seem to be recovering as well as we could have possibly hoped, so with that being said I think it’s best if we move you on to the ward.”

“Fantastic,” John responded, wincing slightly again. This went unnoticed by the doctor.

“You’ll have a side room, a bit of privacy. We’ll have the porters come shortly to take you.” Dr Holden held out his hand again to the three of them and left.

“Thank God,” John said as soon as the curtain was closed and he heard the footsteps going further away. “I don’t think I could handle being in the ICU any longer. This family has been in today and they decided to bring a kid who wouldn’t fucking stop asking questions.” John sighed and pressed his head back in to the pillow.

“Oh dear, John.” Mrs Hudson said, patting his hand gently. “It all comes with hospitals unfortunately. Anyway,” she stood up, “I think I’m going to head back to Baker Street. Let you have some time with Sherlock.” She patted Sherlock on the shoulder now. “Though you’ll see me tomorrow- if you want me to of course.”

John smiled sympathetically. “Definitely, Mrs Hudson. I need some normalcy around here. Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else!” She said enthusiastically. John couldn’t help but grin: no matter how bad the situation, Mrs Hudson always managed to stay positive. It was heart-warming.

“I’ll see you back at the flat, Mrs Hudson. I’ll bring takeout.” He too stood and gave their landlady a hug. “Here’s some money for a cab.” He rummaged around in his pocket before producing a £10 note.

“Sherlock, dear-“

“I insist.” She rolled her eyes.

“See you tomorrow, John.”

“Goodbye Mrs Hudson.”

An hour later John was rested in a side room in Felstead Ward with Sherlock perched on a chair beside him. It was coming up to half past seven. “Visiting will be over shortly.” Sherlock pointed out, looking at the clock on the wall. Those walls. A sickly shade of yellow encapsulated all four surfaces, making the room appear even more dingy than it already was. A window overlooked the carpark and every so often, if the two of them were lucky, a bird would fly past.

“Hopefully this medication will kick in before I try to sleep.” John yawned and Sherlock knew exactly what he meant. No matter how hard John tried to disguise it, Sherlock knew that the PTSD was coming back. Exactly what he had feared.

“You are allowed a higher dose than what you have already.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No.” That was the problem with John. Stubbornness. “I’m fine.”

“You’re still terrible at lying,” Sherlock pointed out, smirking.

“Yep.”

The next thirty minutes went by in the blink of an eye (two birds flew by!). “I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re in pain let someone know. If you want to speak, I’m only phone call away and if the signal doesn’t work I’ll get Mycroft to do whatever it is he does and I’ll come back.” Sherlock leant down a pressed a kiss to John’s lips.

“Thank you for being here.” Sherlock kissed John again before cupping his jaw and stroking his thumb once across John’s cheek.

“As Mrs Hudson would say, I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”


End file.
